


Oh, I hope someday I’ll make it out of here, even if it takes all night or a hundred years

by AlanaCartwright



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, I promise i'm capable of fluff, M/M, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, i swear i'm just in the mood for ANGST, these two idiots deserve so much better omg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 15:09:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18524041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlanaCartwright/pseuds/AlanaCartwright
Summary: Derek wasn’t necessarily the best with words. All too often he messed up, said the wrong thing, wasn’t good enough, but he was going to have to make an effort now. For Stiles. So he said what he had once needed to hear.“I’m here.”Silence. He tried again, softening his tone and reaching out to touch Stiles’s hand.“I’m here.”





	Oh, I hope someday I’ll make it out of here, even if it takes all night or a hundred years

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning I think?? For nightmares???? But like not graphic or anything

As soon as Stiles woke up, a scream ripping itself out of his mouth, at the tender hour of 3:26 AM, he knew it would be a Bad Day. He knew it the way that he knew it was Thursday in Beacon Hills, California. He knew it the way that he knew that he would be spending the evening alone today and tomorrow and probably many days after that. 

 

He knew it the way he knew he was  _ tired _ , the way the ache in his bones and the pit in his stomach remained completely unavoidable. 

 

It had taken a couple days but Scott had noticed. 

 

Stiles had gotten quieter after the Nogitsune. Lunch times that used to be full of loud rants and excessive rambling were now silent, the air heavy and tense in a way it never had been before. Scott had tried to talk to him a few times, get him to open up about what had happened, but it never worked. Something had broken in Stiles, something that might not ever be fixed. 

 

And so, he had begun to drift away. It terrified him sometimes, how similar it felt to being possessed. The same helplessness, the same muted screaming and pounding on glass windows and wooden doors, anything that could be broken down so that maybe,  _ maybe _ he could be heard. But the numbness, the stark relief of being nothing at all was too difficult to give up. He let himself drift under the waves, until he didn’t feel anything, until he was an empty pit of emotion, too exhausted to live. 

 

The walls of his room were filled with newspaper clippings and red string and post-its, because while his emotions had stopped working, his inner Velma, apparently, had not. Books and loose leafs of paper and highlighters cluttered the floor, bringing a sense of organized chaos that seemed to simultaneously soothe and aggravate him. His research was a constant, ever-present shadow throughout everything, inescapably leering at him out of every corner, every angle, but still providing a distraction from the nothingness. 

 

As the weak human ( _ murderer _ ), he could damn well pull his weight. 

 

So he pulled himself out of bed, turned on his light, and settled in for a long day. 

 

* * *

 

Derek knew something was off with Stiles after the Nogitsune. Words that used to come as easy as breathing had been failing him, and his scrawny physique had thinned out, losing the bit of muscle he had gained from lacrosse. Stiles had always worn clothes a few sizes too big, but now he was swimming in them in a way he never had before. His hoodies were beginning to hang off his even-thinner frame with a newfound haggardness. His rich brown eyes that used to dance with the echoes of the earth had dulled into pieces of debris, blank and worn. 

 

It bothered Derek more than he’d thought it would. Stiles was never someone to be described as  _ empty _ . Stiles was dynamic, all flailing limbs and twitching fingers, a lean body that always seemed to be in a state of movement. He was full of emotion, tumbling out from the tips of his untamable hair to the soles of his unsteady feet. Derek used to find it annoying, used to hate it like he had hated reminders of life  _ before _ . It reminded him too much of his mother, of  _ pack _ , and he was in no shape to deal with the ceaseless anguish. 

 

But now Stiles, a vibrating star, seemed to be, dare he say it, still. His hands were still, his toes were still, his  _ heart _ was still. It was as if everything that made Stiles  _ Stiles _ had drained away, leaving nothing behind but the shell of a teenage boy whose madness could make even Derek smile. 

 

Derek had to do something about it. He’d always been at least a little more emotionally involved with his loved ones, and he’d grudgingly admitted to himself a long time ago that Stiles was most definitely a loved one. 

 

* * *

 

When Derek climbed in from Stiles’s window at around 4:30, it was messy, but quiet and motionless. It looked like the eye of a hurricane, waiting for just another second before the world tipped itself into chaos. Stiles himself was sitting on his bed, staring unseeingly at a book in his hand, not even glancing up at Derek’s arrival as if he hadn’t even noticed. 

 

Derek’s eyes shifted to the wall, taking in the dozens of post-its, newspaper articles with highlighted portions, the red string that seemed to cover everything, turning the entire surface into a connected web of data. All of the books in the corner were piled up in tall stacks, and when he moved closer and opened one of them, he could see the countless notes scribbled into the margins. 

 

Stiles still hadn’t moved, his mind a million miles away, and he still hadn’t noticed Derek. His lips were set in a thin line, and he smelled  _ wrong _ . Stiles was supposed to smell like  _ something _ , at least -- stress, excitement, pain, fear,  _ something _ \-- but right now he was nothing. 

 

Derek crossed the room and took the book from his hands, waiting, waiting, until finally, the 18 year-old blinked, startling slightly in recognition. Stiles seemed to come back to reality slowly, with a sloth-like sluggishness that made something inside Derek hurt. The shadows under his eyes seemed deeper than normal, and his shoulders sagged in a bone-deep exhaustion that Derek knew from experience couldn’t be fixed by a few hours of sleep. 

 

“Derek?”

 

It was too quiet. Stiles shouldn’t ever be saying his name that quietly. He should be yelling, screaming,  _ anything  _ other than this painful silence that seemed to creep into the shadows. 

 

Derek wasn’t necessarily the best with words. All too often he messed up, said the wrong thing, wasn’t good enough, but he was going to have to make an effort now. For Stiles. So he said what he had once needed to hear. 

 

“I’m here.”

 

Silence. He tried again, softening his tone and reaching out to touch Stiles’s hand. 

 

“I’m here.”

 

There was a spark of something unreadable in his eyes, and while there was no major change, a piece of Stiles Stilinski seemed to have returned, just for a second. Derek flashed back to the months after the fire, the hours, the days, the  _ weeks _ , before he could even  _ talk _ . 

 

Stiles would do the same. He would take his time, inch his way towards salvation through small,  _ small  _ steps, and it would hurt,  _ god _ , it would  _ hurt _ . But he would be okay. 

 

* * *

 

Derek was reaching the end of the second week of his visits. He would climb in through the window and stay for hours, talking about Erica and Boyd and Isaac and Lydia and Cora and Scott, making sure Stiles wasn’t starving, and then he would leave. Day after day after day. 

 

John Stilinski approached him on the fourth day, thanking him for visiting and feeding his son. There was something so heartfelt and paternal in the inflection of his voice that Derek could do nothing but choke out a small  _ you’re welcome _ , unable to say anything else through the sting behind his eyes and the lump in his throat. 

 

Slowly, like a statue coming back to life, feeling was beginning to return to Stiles’s eyes, filling up the nothingness with grief and pain, raw and present and  _ there _ . By the end of the month, Stiles was crying in deep, gut-wrenching sobs, clutching Derek’s arms with a ferocious desperation. The first few days, he would mumble names,  _ the  _ names, over and over and over, but as the days passed by, the name he was mumbling changed until eventually he was whispering pack names, again and again, as his breathing slowed down and his fingers unclenched themselves from Derek’s jacket. 

 

_ Boyd, Erica, Kira, Dad, Lydia, Boyd, Isaac, Cora, Scott, Derek, Boyd, Erica, Kira, Dad, Lydia, Boyd, Isaac, Cora, Scott, Derek, Boyd, Erica, Kira, Dad, Lydia, Boyd, Isaac, Cora, Scott, Derek, Boyd, Erica, Kira, Dad, Lydia, Boyd, Isaac, Cora, Scott, Derek, Boyd, Erica, Kira, Dad, Lydia, Boyd, Isaac, Cora, Scott, Derek, Boyd, Erica, Kira, Dad, Lydia, Boyd, Isaac, Cora, Scott, Derek.  _

 

* * *

 

Stiles was asleep when Derek arrived, curled up into a tight ball in stark contrast to how he usually slept (like a starfish). The corners of lips were turned down at the corners, and he swallowed, his shoulders tensing a little with a furrowing of his brows. He was muttering something quietly, something that anyone else wouldn’t be able to discern. 

 

Derek could. Derek knew what Stiles was muttering. 

 

_ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. _

 

It was like a dark buzz, constant and steady, tainted only by the meaning behind the words, allowing something heavy to settle in Derek’s chest. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of emotion and opened them a second later, taking slow, gentle steps towards the other boy’s sleeping form. 

 

Stiles’s eyes twitched under his eyelashes, and the furrow of his brows was deepening, so Derek reached up and smoothed it out with his fingers. He snuck a hand under Stiles’s torso and pulled him up so his head was on Derek’s chest and his fingers were wrapped around the lapels of Derek’s leather jacket. Weeks of cuddling had taught Derek that Stiles liked to feel small when he was held, liked to be surrounded by warmth and comfort in a cocoon of contentment and tangled limbs. 

 

“Wake up, Stiles,” Derek whispered gently, slightly rocking the two of them back and forth. 

 

Stiles’s whimpers were gaining volume now, and his muttering was becoming clearer and clearer, each apology a knife to Derek’s heart. His fingers tightened desperately on the leather of the jacket and the crease between his eyebrows became more severe, his breathing beginning to speed up. Derek just rocked faster, whispering sweet nothings with his lips pressed to Stiles’s temple. 

 

When Stiles woke up with a scream that made tears prick at Derek’s eyes, the motions remained constant and Derek’s lips remained pressed against Stiles’s temple. 

 

“I’m here, you’re okay, I’ll protect you, I’m here, you’re loved, we’re all right here for you.”

 

Derek kept his steady chant gentle and careful, as if talking to a spooked horse. His hands reached up to card calloused fingers through the other boy’s hair, tender and sweet. Stiles’s own hands were trembling on Derek’s jacket, Derek’s shoulder getting more and more wet with tears. 

 

Neither of them knew how long that they sat in that position, a tangle of limbs, but they stayed that way even after their legs fell asleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It took another month before Stiles was able to hold a full conversation with anyone. 

 

A few more days for him to call Scott. 

 

A week before he went to a pack meeting. 

 

Two more before he laughed out loud. (Derek’s expression was both fiercely proud and tenderly fond when he saw Stiles doubled over, clutching his stomach and giggling)

 

And three months before Stiles kissed Derek in public, the entire pack wolf whistling in the background. 

**Author's Note:**

> I swear that I can absolutely write fluff and I swear that I will get around to it
> 
> BUT  
> UNTIL THEN
> 
> cry with me


End file.
